There's Only the Here and Now
by Emrys1
Summary: Fallout from the Season Premiere, In My Time of Dying.


A/N: Heavy spoilers from the Season 2 Premiere, "In My Time of Dying." I've been feeling completely heart-thrashed since watching it, and had to do something. More than likely, there will be a follow-up fic to this one, but it will be in Sam's point of view. I just decided to try Dean's first. Oh, and as usual, there's a small warning for language.

_Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. The CW and Eric Kripke do. Oh, and I'm not making profit from this, as is evidenced by my crappy apartment._

**There's Only the Here and Now**

They stay at Bobby's because they just don't know what else to do. They can't move on and they can't forget, so they may as well stand still for just a little while until one of them finds a direction. Besides, Bobby insists on it, and it will give them time to get the Impala in working order. Repairing the Impala is good; a good idea, because they've lost too many family members already, and maybe they can keep this one.

Dean works on his car every day. He works despite the residual pain of his injuries; works to honor his father's memory, because his father loved this car before Dean did. Working is something else that's good, because it keeps Dean from thinking. And he doesn't want to think anymore because when he does, some squirmy, niggling part of his brain insists on being heard, and Dean is pretty sure he doesn't want to listen to what it has to say.

So he works on the car, and watches Sam closely, and offers comfort if he can. It's not often that he can find the energy to speak anymore, but if Sammy needs the words, Dean will gladly give them up to him.

_It wasn't your fault. Calm down, Sam. We're okay. We'll be okay, you'll see._

He gives him the words and the soft reassurances of a gentle hand on a shoulder or, if necessary, even a consoling embrace. Sammy calms down, and Dean becomes even more tired.

And it's only when he gets this tired that he sleeps. And it's while he's sleeping that the little niggling voice that he tries so hard to ignore is strong and tells him things he doesn't want to know. Tells him reasonable things in a reasonable voice that makes more sense than any other part of his existence presently does.

888

Dean wakes up from a dream of a dark-haired jewel of a woman stroking the back of his neck to the smell of musty sheets and the shock of sunlight's beam striking him straight in the eyes. He rubs his neck as the sensation of ghosting fingers slowly fades and then struggles his way out of the bed. Sammy's not in the room which they share here in Bobby's corner of the world, so Dean staggers out and into the main area of the house.

Muffled voices are coming from the kitchen, and Dean's dream-hazed mind supplies him with enough information to know that Sam and Bobby are having a serious conversation. Damn serious from the sound of it, and Dean's not sure that he really wants to know what they're discussing. But the memory of slender fingers on his neck practically pushes him towards the door, and he stands there quietly and eavesdrops despite his desperate desire not to.

"I 'spect it wasn't anything he didn't want to do," Bobby is saying in a knowing way. Sam doesn't sound happy _at all_, but Bobby's words are too pragmatic for Dean's rational brother to fight.

"Well, we can't tell Dean. Not yet, at least. He's too weak," Sam's voice is laced with concern and heavy grief, and Dean almost barrels through the door to level some comfort on his little brother.

Almost, but not quite.

"You don't think he deserves to know this?"

Sam's quiet for some time after Bobby asks this question, and when he answers, Dean can hear tears jamming up his voice.

"You don't know, Bobby. You just don't know," Sam's breath hitches and he goes quiet once more. Dean's got his hand on the flat of the kitchen door and is about to open it when Sam starts talking again.

"A few months ago, Dean's heart was damaged in a fight with a raw-head. I took him to a faith healer who fixed his heart, but the guy unknowingly used a reaper to do it. Dean survived only because the reaper put the damage on someone else. Someone else who _died_, Bobby. Dean took it hard. Real hard. And that was a complete stranger. He won't—"

Despite the vacant façade Dean wears from time to time, he's never been stupid. On some level he knows what Sam is talking about, practically knows what the next words coming out of Sam's mouth will be. But there's another part of him that just refuses to hear it. It's the same stubborn part that keeps shutting down the squirmy voice in his head, and now it works to slam down walls that keep any further sound and thought from entering.

He's in the shower when awareness returns, but he has no recollection of undressing and lathering up. Nevertheless, here he is, covered in soap, and the water's way too hot.

Numbly, he adjusts the water temperature and concentrates on nothing else but getting clean again.

888

When the Impala is in working order, they decide to go back on the road. It's a mutual decision even though neither one of them can completely say why they feel the need to move on. But the need is there, and after inadequate words of gratitude they return Bobby to his solitary life.

They both scent sulphur in the wind, and they push on through two days and a night of sleepless worry and fear. When they reach the East coast, it's raining and the air smells clean and slightly salty.

They need funds, and Dean's still too exhausted and out of sorts to hustle money out of the locals' pockets. So they stop at one of their many post office boxes and pick up new credit cards. Sam doesn't complain nearly as much as he usually does. Actually he doesn't complain at all. Just looks at the new card with disdain and shoves it into his travel-worn wallet. Dean's relieved, because the card means a place to sleep and some food for Sammy who is looking way too thin.

They find a hotel close to the ocean that's over-priced, but Dean doesn't care. All he wants to do is sleep in a place that smells of salt air. For as long as he can remember, salt has been synonymous with safety and peace, and he just wants a little bit of both.

He forces Sam to eat and pretends to eat himself. He has no appetite. Hasn't had one in, well, in a very long time. Food holds no interest for him, and besides, he's pretty sure it's just going to make a return appearance if he eats it, so what's the point? He doesn't miss the concern in Sam's eyes.

Dean knows that Sammy's worried about him and supposes that his little brother has cause. Dean also knows that he needs to start talking more, but he just can't find the strength to speak. His reserves are low, and he's hemorrhaging too much energy into keeping his thoughts under control, his muscles from shaking, his mind from snapping, and the self-recriminations at bay.

Hemorrhaging, because that damn awful, niggling voice in his head has been squirming its way free, and now he's losing wars on all fronts. His thoughts are fast and wild creatures that he cannot rein in. His hands shake continuously and only relent in their traitorous weakness when he crushes the Impala's steering wheel between his palms. And his mind _is_ going to snap soon, because he senses it being bent slowly backwards to the point where self-recrimination actually feels good in comparison.

Dean knows he's in deep shit and knows that it's only going to get worse before the morning comes. He's going to have to sleep soon, and when he does, he thinks that he might remember everything that he's been trying to forget. He thinks that the stubborn part of him that's been trying to shut out the knowing, wriggling voice has finally given in, and maybe it's for the best. Maybe self-destruction will turn out to be so much easier than all of this.

Yes, Sammy has a right to be concerned, and the part of Dean that is still Sam's older brother wants to make everything all better for them both. But Dean just can't figure out how to do that, so he stays quiet and hopes that the safe and right things to do will find him in the morning.

888

The walls collapsed when he did, and Dean dreamt too much last night. Now he doesn't understand what's happening. He also doesn't understand what has happened, and he can't bear to think about what will happen. He's caught in a limbo of pain and confusion, and the only person who can make it better is gone. He's still not really sure how that happened, the leaving of his father, but he's starting to remember more about the event.

The scattered bits of memory from his own trial of not-quite-dying rake across his brain like knives, nails, and railroad spikes. Rake across as any and all sharp things do. Rake across and leave wounds in important places, but not a single hurt is enough to kill him. He feels himself bleeding, deep inside where these wounds do the most harm, and whether he's bleeding the threads of his past, present, or future, he doesn't know.

He doesn't even particularly care, just wishes that he can stop whatever clock wields control over time, turn the damn thing back—way the hell back—and start over again. He wants to be Superman and fly backwards across the planet so that he can fix what went wrong, fix what never should have happened.

Fix what he never should have allowed to happen.

_Dad. Daddy, I don't understand. I can't do this, not without you._

"Are you okay, Dean?" Sammy asks him, and his voice is laced with such concern, that Dean doesn't have to look at him to know what expression his brother's face is wearing. Dean has spent the entire day in bed, and now night is coming and not even the salt air is comforting him anymore.

_No, no, no, I'm not okay,_ he thinks.

"I'm fine, Sam. Lemme be," he says, and is relieved that the despair coating his throat and face like a badly chosen color of wall paint is hidden behind the lines of the flat hotel pillow.

Sam backs off, and Dean's slowly drawn back into a deep sleep where he dreams of playing with a Ouija board, of a father's senseless watching, and of the exquisite woman who speaks soft words that make too much sense.

Words and words and words echo throughout his sleeping awareness. Words he doesn't want to remember, but which are forced upon him anyway.

_It's your time to go, Dean, and you're living on borrowed time already._

_The fight's over._

_You're not getting back in your body and that's just facts._

_Today's your lucky day, kid._

_I just want you to know that I am so proud of you._

When he wakes, it's to the sensation of a tear-dampened pillow, crusted, swollen eyes, and a throat clogged with too much sorrow.

_Oh, Dad. Daddy, what did you do?_

It's very early to be awake, but thankfully, Sammy's still sleeping. Dean turns the pillow over to hide the evidence of his grief and stumbles his way to the bathroom. He's still weakened by exhaustion, but he thinks he can manage a shower. He's trying not to think of anything important while he undresses, but once underneath the water's soothing spray, a wave of grief hits him so hard that he falls to his knees. The water continues to fall across his shoulders and back, and although it's trying to comfort him, the gentle spray does nothing but magnify his pain.

_I wasn't worth it, Dad_, he thinks. Last night's dreams and niggling voices have helped him to finally remember all of what happened in the recent, awful past, and he _knows_ that his father's death was a sacrifice. A sacrifice for a dying son who just was not worth it.

He fists his hand and crams it against his mouth as he tries to smother the sobs that are ripping through him and tearing at the wounds that the sharp things made in him the night before.

Sam finds him later, crouched in the corner of the bathroom. He's half-dressed and half out of his mind, and when he sees Sam he laughs. It echoes unpleasantly within the confines of the tiled room.

"Dad would've had our hide if he had found out about the Ouija board, Sam," he says, and the look of dismay and confusion on his brother's face makes him laugh out his horror again.

"I know, Dean," Sam says ruefully. Dean knows that Sam's expecting a dark conversation to ensue and has been waiting for it to happen since their father's death.

"No chick flick moments, Sammy-boy," Dean says in a voice so choked with hopelessness that he can barely get the words out.

"Dean—"

"No, Sam. No," Dean says in that awful, broken way. "I won't."

And then, to prove his resolve and the extent of his stubbornness, he stands up and shuffles his way past his brother and any chance for absolution that might have been offered.

888

It's too soon for him to be hunting yet, and Dean knows it by the way his body talks to him in the well-known language of pain. But though he knows it's too soon, Sammy doesn't, and that's all that's important now.

Dean needs the flowing blood that the hunt can provide; needs it to replace what's leaking from the wounds inside. And although what he's gaining isn't exactly what he's losing, it offers him some semblance of life and familiarity.

So, since he needs the hunt and the blood, he hides the pain from Sammy. And it's too early, but if he waits any longer it's going to be way too late.

And it's a wendigo in Fullerton and a black dog in Saugerties. A poltergeist in Willow Grove and a vengeful water sprite in Centerton. It's pain and blood and the cessation of tears. It's the importance of the fight in the absence of forgiveness and worth. It's a cracked rib in Baltimore and a fractured arm in Fredricksburg. And it's the here and now instead of the past and future.

"What are we doing, Dean? Where are we going?" Sam asks one twilight hour when they are following a lazy road through another sleepy Southern town.

_Nowhere. Anywhere. I have no fucking clue,_ Dean thinks, and this is the truth.

But he lies to Sammy, because he made a deathbed promise to his father, and he's not going to break it. Not ever.

"We need to do what Dad would want us to do. We're hunting, and we're going where the hunt takes us."

He can't say anymore, because he doesn't have the energy, and he has no clue how he managed to mention Dad without his voice quavering. Sam's obviously not satisfied with the answer, but Dean's too tired to fight again. Thankfully, Sam seems to understand and keeps his mouth shut.

And although Dean doesn't want to fight his brother, he's more than willing to take on any other evil thing. He fights so that he can forget his past, and he tries not to think of the future sprawled out in front of him in a bleak landscape that is missing the tall figure of his father. He pays attention only to the present, and here there is the hunt in which he can hide from all the other aspects of time by camouflaging himself with blood.

And although life is on hold and Sammy's concerned, concentrating on the here and now is working just fine for Dean.


End file.
